


Captain's Private Log

by Eligh



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Miscommunication, POV First Person, Stranded
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-09
Updated: 2012-10-09
Packaged: 2017-11-15 23:57:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eligh/pseuds/Eligh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim and Spock kill some time after being accidentally stranded on a planet. Also, Spock has a beard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Captain's Private Log

We’d been on the planet for fifteen days, just the two of us. It was a benign place; no major predators that we could find, and it had been just shitty luck that stranded us here while the _Enterprise_ had been thrown halfway across the galaxy. But she was on her way back, power surge fixed, no worries. We just needed to wait.

But here was the issue: waiting meant roughing it. It wasn’t like we’d packed camping gear or personal hygiene materials, not for a mission that was supposed to take all of two hours. This meant no toothbrushes, no combs, no changes of clothes, no _razors_ , and it was the lack of shaving, specifically, that was producing some interesting results.

I was actually somewhat enjoying myself—I’d never grown a beard before, and while it was slow in coming, it was filling in nicely, a dark sort of golden brown that I’d been unaware I could produce. In fact, I hadn’t been entirely sure I _could_ grow a beard; I’d started shaving in high school, but only because if I didn’t, I looked a bit like I had mange. To my youthful embarrassment, (to put it mildly) my beard had grown in seemingly random patches and had been a rather violent shade of orange, so… yea. I shaved. And then there was the Academy dress code, and when the choice was finally mine again, I hadn’t thought twice about it. The decision to grow a hypothetical beard had never even crossed my mind.

I’d certainly never really thought about what it would look like if Spock didn’t shave, despite the many varied positions and situations I’ve seen him in over the last few years. Spock was always so meticulously groomed—if you’d asked me a month ago to picture Spock with a beard, I would have been hard pressed to do so. But now…

The thing was that Spock was _hairy_. I remember wondering, once the stubble started showing, (which was like, six hours in, seriously, how had I not noticed this previously) if it was a vulcan thing or just a Spock thing, but _damn_ was it a Thing. And I should have known; I’d seen Spock shirtless (it was one of my secret favorite views of Spock but, _god_ , don’t tell Spock that I think that; despite evidence to the contrary, I’m not really into being choked, at least not by a furious vulcan—once was enough for me. A horny vulcan was another thing entirely, but I digress.).

Anyway, Spock shirtless: seen it before, seen the fur on his chest, seen the dark hair that contrasted so starkly against his pale arms. Though now that I think about it, that hair seemed like it had been groomed, too, not that I’m usually concentrating on Spock’s manscaping when we were in said shirtless situations.

Still, it was weird as hell and now we were two weeks in and Spock looked like a fuckin _mountain_ man, and I couldn’t stop staring.

~

Spock let out a breath that would have been classified as a sigh had he been experiencing the human emotion of ‘exasperation’ and said, “Cease. Staring at me.”

I blinked, utterly unembarrassed to be caught once again (because _please_ , I do not get embarrassed, I’m Captain Awesome, thanks), and redirected my attention to poking at the tricorder. I wasn’t really sure what I was planning on doing with the damn thing—we had enough readings of this stupid planet to backlog a science vessel for the next ten years. Anyway, a minute went by (I could practically feel Spock counting it) and then I looked up, letting the smile that meant ‘I’m about to be an ass’ grow on my face. Spock not-sighed again.

“So do you take shaving breaks when you’re on duty?” I asked, and gestured to his face. “Because this beard has surpassed impressive and gone straight into biblical. Hell, it probably has a personality. It crawls off your face at night and mates with the local wildlife and creates little baby beards that are infiltrating the fauna of the planet and we’ll come back in ten years to an advanced civilization composed entirely of Beard, with their own Beardish language and Beardish customs. They’ll have warp capability and will join the Federation and you’ll be the Ambassador to Beardtopia and they will worship you as their Beardish god.”

Spock scratched at his chin and I widened my eyes in mock-terror. “Don’t anger the damn thing, it’ll kill us in our sleep!”

There was a beat of silence between us (Spock was trying to keep his eyebrow from twitching, I know that look) and then he turned to me and fixed me with his absolute best blank face. “Are you quite finished?”

“No, I can keep this up for hours.” I grinned at him and to Spock’s clear dismay, put the tricorder down.

“Perhaps we should gather firewood…” he suggested mildly, but I just shook my head.

“We’ve got enough to last us at least five generations of Beard.” And yea, that was totally true—we’d spent an entire day earlier gathering wood and it wasn’t even cold on this planet. Mostly useless task, is what I’m trying to say. I opened my mouth to continue and Spock hastily cut me off, which yea, was probably a good idea. I was preparing to go into a detailed speculation about his supposed beard-offspring, which would only have ended with me acting a little crazier than usual, so it was really best for everyone.

“I do not,” Spock said, “shave during duty.” (Not gonna lie, I was a little surprised that he was indulging me.) “I find that a sonic razor, used every twelve hours, more than adequately curtails the growth of facial hair.”

I narrowed my eyes. Totally unacceptable answer. “See, no. That doesn’t make sense. I’ve seen you nonstop for stretches longer than twelve hours, and I’ve never seen you with a five o’clock shadow. Not even once.” I stretched out on the ground by our tiny campfire and fixed him with my best curious look, which if I may say, is very good. I learned it from him, after all.

He steepled his fingers together and took a long breath, which I had learned awhile ago was Spock-ese for ‘You’re an idiot,’ but after a moment, he explained anyway. “I am able to control all bodily functions, including follicle growth. I strive to look composed in all professional situations, as it is helpful for crew morale.” He eyed me, daring me to go on, and I couldn’t help but smile slightly as, as the silence dragged out, he twitched under my scrutiny.

I quirked my mouth up, smirking (because making Spock twitch means I win) and he rolled his eyes, then immediately looked aghast at his _oh so inappropriate display of emotionalism_ (/sarcasm). But he apparently decided it was at least somewhat acceptable, because he rallied and continued.

“I had not thought that under the current circumstances it was worth the effort expended to cease my body’s production of hair.” He leaned back against a tree with an air of practiced nonchalance, something I know for a _fact_ that he’d picked up from me (let no one say I taught him nothing). And there was that vicious eyebrow again, combined with the deadly force of the slight, amused curl of his lip. “I was under the impression that we are off duty.”

And fuck, I couldn’t not smile at that. “ _Yes_ , Mister Spock. We are, aren’t we? Can’t exactly be in charge of a ship if the ship’s a couple hundred light years away.”

“Indeed,” Spock said dryly. And I saw the flash of an idea forming; he probably thought that getting me talking about my girl would mean I would drop the subject of his beard. “Do you suppose that Commander Scott—”

“No, no, nonono,” I grinned. “You will not get me off topic here, sweetness.” (I love how easily I read him now that we’re so close—can’t imagine how hard my life would be without him.) Spock raised his eyebrow again—ok, _sweetness_ was a little uncalled for _—_ and suddenly I made the executive decision that fuck it, I want what I want. I rolled to my knees and half crawled toward him. He would have done it a bit more gracefully, but he does everything— _everything—_ gracefully (the man takes cocksucking to an art form, seriously) so I didn’t feel too bad.

“Captain—” I saw the surprise on his face as he pressed himself further back into the tree, and yea ok.

Maybe I should explain a _little_. So… Spock and I fuck. Not often; we’re not in a _relationship_ or anything, and it has only happened so far when things have been really intense. Like, there was that time we got in a firefight with those three Klingon Bird-of-Preys and they blew the right nacelle off my beauty and Spock had been on the starboard side of the ship and I spent half a fuckin day thinking he was dead, and then there was the time on Ominion… something, IV or V… and the natives kidnapped me and I had to escape and ended up lost in their murder-jungle for a fuckin week until he found me, and the time with the pleasure pollen (I _know_ , don’t even _start_ ), and that time we were both captured and we thought we were gonna be executed in the morning…

Anyway.

The point, I had a point… oh. The _point_ was that we only fucked when Shit Got Real. This was not one of those times, but there was just… something. That fucking beard, it was giving me all these crazy thoughts. And hell, I _do_ mean crazy, ‘cause there was the usual ‘fuck him into the dirt’ stuff going on, but there was also some weird shit like ‘touch his face and kiss him’ which was… yea. Weird. Still, it wasn’t like we had anything else to do. Or something.

So my mouth was blabbing without my express permission, (which never turns out well, I really need a filter) saying shit like, “It’s so _thick_ , Spock, how do you even do it?” And suddenly I was right in his face. I could feel my cheeks stretching with a smile that probably looked a bit on the goofy side, but I didn’t even care. Spock contemplated me for a moment.

“It is a talent that is shared by many of my people.” And maybe I was imagining things, but I was pretty sure that he his voice was a hint lower than usual, his eyes a little darker.

“And jet-black, too,” I added, leaning closer. I wasn’t sure for a second if I was talking about his beard or his eyes, but rallied after a moment. “Not a speck of grey.” I reached out but diverted my hand at the last second, touching his shoulder instead of running my fingers through that beard like I had apparently been planning.

“I am only thirty, Captain.” And yea, his voice was lower than usual, and I had to fight down a shiver that threatened up my spine. He glanced away from me, then looked back, refocusing on my mouth, and _fuck_ but that shouldn’t have been so hot. It took me a moment to even realize he was talking again. “The likelihood of my having greying hair is… low… despite the often unnatural stressors of our post.”

Unnatural stressors, right. Like getting stuck on a fucking deserted planet with nothing to pass the time except ogling my first officer. I licked my lips, thinking, and then—no shit—heard Spock suck in a surprised breath.

And with that, I was pretty sure that we were both on board for where this particular encounter was going.

I took the opportunity of the moment to reach up and thread my fingers tightly through Spock’s beard, tugged slightly at the base, right at his chin, and his mouth fell open slightly. He shifted forward and snaked a hand around my back, a gentle pressure that still somehow hinted that he could rip me apart if he wanted. As it was, I shuffled closer on my knees and he tilted his head up.

“You look fucking sexy like this,” I murmured. “Can’t keep my eyes off you.”

“This is inappropriate,” Spock commented, though he shifted sideways so he was almost kneeling, too. It brought us closer again, just shy of being pressed together. He’d said that our actions were inappropriate that the first time I had stepped into his personal space, too, all those months ago. And he reminded me during the second, and the third… I think that he feels it would be prudent to remind me that what we’re doing isn’t strictly regulation behavior between the command team. Not that he actually cares. Nah, if he cared, he wouldn’t let me touch him.

But then he _was_ kneeling, pressing his chest to mine, and I still had my fingers knotted in his beard. His hand was hot on the small of my back, pulling me closer, letting me feel him, his heat, the growing hardness in his regulation slacks. I let out a sharp breath and tightened my grip.

“We’ve never fucked without the benefit of adrenaline to help us along,” I said suddenly, soft enough that Spock probably needed to strain to hear me.

Spock let the silence between us draw out, and despite my usual bravado, I started to feel a little insecure. I wasn’t trying to dissuade him—just. If we did this, it would be something new. It might be crossing a line, or something.

But then Spock was tilted his head toward mine, pressing my wrist backward at a near painful angle, and I was forced to let go of my hold on his beard. His lips brushed my ear and he whispered, “I do not need a surge of bodily chemicals to find you attractive, Captain.”

I almost corrected him—going with my usual ‘it’s Jim, dammit’—but then he was pulling back, those dark eyes flashing something like amusement and oh _fuck_ him, he was screwing with my head. Sneaky goddamn vulcan. But two can play at that game, so I tilted my hips forward, pressed my dick against his. And then I smirked when his mouth dropped open and his fingers dug painfully into my back.

He took a moment to compose himself and I watched him watch my neck—probably looking at my pulse flutter. After a minute, he slipped his hand under my shirt, spreading his fingers wide against my skin. I could feel the soft buzz of his Spock-ness through our touch, and like every time he touched me, I swallowed hard, almost immediately overcome by the closeness of this whole thing.

Yea, maybe I was a little more invested than I claimed to be.

And then he was letting his lust seep through his touch—that was the only thing it could be, really, something dark and twisting and alien despite how many times I’d felt it before, red-tinged but with soft edges, arching through my body, settling low in my stomach. I couldn’t help but gasp and half-heard him force out a soft breath that was his version of a laugh.

He leaned in again, letting his beard brush against my cheek, then dipped his head and mouthed into my neck. (And wait, just when the fuck did he take control of this situation—he always _does_ this) His words caught me off-guard, couldn’t have been more off-guard if he’d tried—which he probably had—“I do… enjoy… your mouth on me.”

My eyes snapped closed. “Jesus fucking Christ,” I moaned, and pressed my hips harder into his. He let out that soft breath-laugh again, the cocky bastard, and that really should have warned me but when it comes to Spock and sex (or rather sex-with-Spock) I always seem a little slow on the uptake and so I was taken entirely by surprise when the mental image of

_me on my knees, sucking his dick, spit on my chin, my eyes blown so far you could barely see the blue, my command gold rucked up around my armpits, my slacks unbuttoned and shoved halfway down my thighs, my own cock straining and dripping in my hand. I’m groaning around him, and the vibrations are making him crazy, making him want to fuck my mouth, to slide in, let the crown force its way down my throat, wanting to make me choke on it and I can’t get my mouth wide enough or my tongue wet enough and all I want is to let him fuck me, want him to shove me against the wall of my quarters and_ fuck _me, make me feel it and_

I gasped against him, more turned on than I can ever remember being in my whole fucking life and he’s not laughing anymore, either, just looking at me like he wants to devour me. There was a beat of silence where we stared at one another and then he shoved me over, yanking my pants down fast enough that the button rips off and I’d be pissed later, but then he’s ducking his head down and nuzzling (fuckin _nuzzling_ ) against my cock through my boxer briefs. I could feel the prickle of that fucking. beard. against my thighs and then he licked, slow and hot and not nearly enough, right through the material.

I groaned, something that I think was supposed to be a curse but that got caught somewhere in my chest and turned inarticulate. I reached down and threaded my fingers through his hair, tugging too hard, I knew, but still—

He growled and yanked my briefs down (I heard them rip but didn’t think about how I got to go commando for the rest of the time on the planet ‘til later) and sucked me in. And it was too much, too hard, too much suction. I was already arching into his mouth, moaning like a whore, but there was a sudden flash of desire that wasn’t mine and I realized he wanted to hear me like this, was gagging for the noises I was making.

“You like my dick, Spock?” I forced out. He hummed around me in retaliation and then he was reaching into his own pants, pulling himself out. He wasn’t at an angle where I could see him clearly, even though I propped myself up on my elbows and had a perfect view down my body of him sinking his mouth around my cock. I had a flash of disappointment, but then he shifted to the side so I could _see_ him and _fuck_ I love touch telepaths.

“Let me see you,” I groaned. “Touch yourself, yea, fist your cock and imagine me doing it, I’d squeeze you on the upstroke and _ahh_ —” because apparently he’d had enough of my talking and had added just the lightest scrape of teeth, dangerous and playful at the same time. He dropped his dick and reached between my legs, rolling my balls in the palm of his hand and that was all I needed, already almost over the edge (and who the fuck would blame me, I was getting double the sensations of everything. If you ever have a chance to fuck a touch telepath, let me tell you that it is a chance you should take) and I was bucking, burying myself deep in his throat.

He swallowed every drop I had to give him ‘cause he’s a gentleman, and even gave me a moment to catch my breath before he shifted, dragging his beard up my body, letting it scrape across my spent cock. I twitched up protectively; not ashamed to say that I was a little overwhelmed.

“Spock,” I whispered, and suddenly he was flush with me, those dark eyes staring into mine, and I was able to reach between us and grasp him. I had another surge of disappointment that we didn’t have lube, but in lieu of it, I concentrated, trying to send him a memory of me on my hands and knees, how it feels when he buries himself in my ass, the near unbearable _heat_ of him inside me. He hitched a breath and I let him go, licked my hand quickly before reaching down again.

I pulled back just enough to give myself a good view of it, of his violent green dick sliding in my hand. “Beautiful,” I whispered without even really thinking about it, knew in an unconscious sort of way that he was staring at my face. I tightened my grip and ran my thumb between his first and second ridges, wished momentarily that his balls were on the outside so I could touch them, settled instead for teasing his tip.

He’d started slowly thrusting into my hand by the time I’d recovered enough to consider moving again, and seemed surprised when I ducked down and slid just his head between my lips. I licked at his slit and he shivered; did it again and he groaned low in his throat, like he was trying to muffle it. I pulled back and kissed his tip, then bobbed down just enough to get both ridges into my mouth. As I traced my tongue between them, he swore softly (‘ _mirann’_ and I still have no idea what it means) the word slipping from his lips, and reached down, grabbed my hair, forced me to look at him.

“Jim—” he said, hoarse and his voice so full of _something_ that I couldn’t catch my breath, couldn’t keep our eye contact. Instead, I turned to the matter at hand (well, matter at mouth) and took him in, not bothering to try to deep-throat, just putting my mouth on him in every way I imagined

_imagined late at night, wishing I could cross the hall to his quarters, wishing I could touch him when we weren’t about to die, or had almost died. Wishing I could sleep with him wrapped tight in my arms, the heat in our imaginary shared quarters up too high for me to be comfortable, too low for him to be, but still somehow perfect. Wished I could touch his hand and have him know I loved him, loved him, loved him_

He jerked sharply, let out a low growl, and came in my mouth. I wasn’t ready but still tried to swallow everything, mostly succeeded. Still, some of his spunk dripped out, lost in my two week’s worth of beard. I pulled back

(because _jesus_ I hadn’t actually been thinking that, had I? I can’t believe I’d been thinking that while I was touching him—Spock’s not _mine_ not mine to think of like that, he’d never touch me again, I can’t believe I fucking did that)

and turned away, shuffling backward away from him until I was pressed against the tree he’d been reclining against when I started this stupid thing. I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes. “Fuck,” I breathed, barely even a word. I didn’t open my eyes when I heard him shuffle his clothing, still a few feet away, didn’t open them when I heard the dirt shifting as he stood, didn’t open them when I heard him walk away.

When I finally got the courage to open them again, Spock was nowhere to be seen.

~

A clatter of sticks dropping into our woodpile jerked me out of a restless doze. Spock was crouching on the other side of the fire, as far away from me as he could get while still being in our campsite. He glanced at me once, then looked down and started rearranging the sticks.

“I gathered firewood,” he said after a long, painful silence.

I watched him for a moment, considering. He didn’t look at me again, just slowly stacked the sticks in separate piles—larger ones for overnight, smaller for the daytime when we had nothing to do but tend the fire ( _and fuck_ , my traitorous brain supplied, and I shoved the thought away).

“Thank you, Sp- Commander.” Because I’d already decided that the best way to make Spock forget that I’d accidentally let it slip that I loved him (and don’t I get double bonus points for making that connection with his dick in my mouth) was to act as professional as humanly possible. “I can go catch some fish for dinner.”

He nodded, still not looking at me, and I left the campsite in a hurry, grabbing the spear he’d fashioned on the first day on my way out. I stalked down to the stream near our spot, silently fuming at myself. Why they fuck had I done that? We’d had a good thing, me and him, and I had to let the image of his stupid face with his stupid black beard overwhelm all my self-denial and now I’d ruined everything.

At least I could count on him being professional (Spock would never be unprofessional, never) and though I’d have to accept that we probably wouldn’t play chess or have rambling discussions about nothing in one or the other of our quarters anymore, I’d still have the best fucking first officer in the Fleet. And that was fine, perfectly fine.

I dropped down on my haunches next to a relatively quieter inlet in the stream and watched the water carefully. There were a school of fish that hung out here, and as long as we only tried fishing every couple days, they kept coming back. It was good, because while we had enough emergency rations to last us, freeze-dried protein bars weren’t exactly the most appetizing things.

It had been about ten minutes, and I was just lining up the spear on a particularly tasty-looking specimen, when Spock cleared his throat behind me. And yea, I jumped and dropped the spear with a splash (the fish scattered of course) because trust Spock to sneak up on me on a bank of gravel, (he’s a fucking cat, I swear) and anyone would have been surprised.

“Dammit Spock,” I snapped. “Now we don’t get fish for dinner.” I leaned into the pool and managed to save the spear before the current floated it away with only the slightest wetting of my slacks. I didn’t look at him as I asked, “What do you want?”

I heard him shift behind me and when I turned, he was settled into his parade rest, hands behind his back, looking pointedly at the top of a tree across the stream. I stood, and suddenly furious, (because it was obvious I hadn’t been _trying_ to think those things, wasn’t it? It’s not like I consciously tried to throw him off his game like this) jammed the spear point down into the soft mud at the edge of the stream.

“What,” I said. My voice was low and venomous, but I didn’t care, not really. If Spock was going to be like this, then how did he expect me to react? “Look, I’m sorry I got my messy emotions all over you. Whatever I feel clearly hasn’t affected how we work together so far, so just… just drop it. You be all appropriately vulcan and I’ll be appropriately human and we’ll stop fucking and I’ll forget it.” Spock blinked and after a moment, refocused on my face.

“No.”

And yea, I couldn’t help it—I gaped at him. “No? No isn’t an answer to this. What—are you saying you’re going to, what? Transfer? Give up your position?” I looked down, suddenly finding it hard to breathe. “You’d leave m- the _Enterprise_?” Fuck, almost didn’t catch myself. I rallied. “What the fuck, Spock? You know I wouldn’t ever do anything to jeopardize the ship, or the people under my command. And if that means that we’re just coworkers from now on ‘til the end of time, I can do that.” I shook my head and walked past him, avoiding touching his shoulder as we passed on the narrow path. “I thought you knew me better than that.”

But then his hand was holding tight to my arm, just above my elbow. “Jim,” he said, and his voice was broken like I’d never heard it before. I stopped dead in my tracks and turned to him. He was looking at me with clear misery on his face and I sucked in a breath.

“Jim, I was saying ‘no’ to never… to ceasing our relationship. I was unaware of your regard.” He tightened his grip, pushing it past painful, but I didn’t move. He looked at me, black eyes open and worried, that stupid, sexy beard framing his pale face, his lips, so perfectly. He swallowed. “Seeing my affections mirrored so perfectly in your mind was nearly overwhelming.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t been aware I was holding and he pulled me to him, let go of my arm and wrapped his around my back. He tilted his head down, making up for our inch or so height difference, and kissed me softly. I let my eyes flutter shut and reached up, cupped his face in my hand, and pushed my fingers into his beard. 

**Author's Note:**

> I am pretty sure this came from a mixture of watching The Final Frontier--Sybok and Spock are brothers, surely they could grow similar beards--and randomly stumbling across a picture of unshaven Zachary Quinto. And then for some reason this supposed-to-be-PWP turned shmoopy. 
> 
> I really am flabbergasted by what comes out of my keyboard a lot of the time.


End file.
